


the tear in this (our gentle language)

by eclipsed (lucitae)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Hinata Shouyou, Post-Time Skip, pre 402
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25972636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitae/pseuds/eclipsed
Summary: “I’m going back to Brazil.”He isn’t asking for permission. This isn’t a consultation. Hinata Shouyou informs his boyfriend at their after-practice practice. Miya Atsumu has a volleyball in each arm, trying to pick up a third. It drops and rolls away from him. The thud resounding in an empty gymnasium.Shouyou had tried to envision Atsumu’s reaction many times. He never expected to be met with silence.Alternatively:an exploration of Hinata Shouyou’s return to Brazil
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 16
Kudos: 167
Collections: AtsuHina Exchange





	the tear in this (our gentle language)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spills/gifts).



> Prompt 3: favorite poems  
> [lap](https://www.poetrytranslation.org/poems/lap) by Carla Diacov &  
> [your face](https://www.poetrytranslation.org/poems/your-face) by Armando Freitas Filho
> 
> for xin who gives and gives and gives and never asks of anything in return. written with love ❤
> 
> inspired by [ville's comic](https://twitter.com/atsumushairgel/status/1274249705539735552), xin's first [atsuhina fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24581401).
> 
> special thanks to [yam](https://twitter.com/riceforkita) for beta-ing ❤

> and I follow, by heart  
>  the sigh of this ah-  
>  more torn  
>  blind and alone

_your face_ by Armando Freitas Filho

* * *

“I’m going back to Brazil.”

He isn’t asking for permission. This isn’t a consultation. Hinata Shouyou informs his boyfriend at their after-practice practice. Miya Atsumu has a volleyball in each arm, trying to pick up a third. It drops and rolls away from him. The thud resounding in an empty gymnasium.

Shouyou had tried to envision Atsumu’s reaction many times. He never expected to be met with silence.

* * *

In his second year, right before the qualifier for Spring High, Shouyou finds a letter snuck into his locker.

Shouyou was giddy as he faced her. She was slightly taller than Yachi but just as nervous. Shouyou watches the wringing of her hands and almost reaches out to teach her to write _human_ thrice in her palm and swallow it, only to be stopped by the confession that spills from her lips.

Pretty lips with words that made his heart race. But even as Shouyou experiences this scene he’s only seen in dramas his mother watches and the shoujo mangas Natsu reads, Shouyou finally understands why Kageyama turns them all down.

Shouyou used to confront Kageyama, along with Tanaka senpai, with a _huh?! Why not?_ and an _if it were me..._ as he tapped his chin.

But now it is his turn.

In another life, one that didn’t experience being plucked of wings from a fever. If he never sank his fangs into the exhilaration of the game that begins with a tingle in the palm of his hand when the ball is slammed past a tall, tall wall. The light throb of fingers when it’s tipped and all the defenders dive to no avail—glowering at the one who still stands on the opposing court. Or if he never fell in love with predicting the path of a spiker’s ball and watching the opposing side’s face contort when they were oh so sure they made it, only to have it passed back to the setter’s awaiting fingers.

If Hinata Shouyou never learned to fly, he would have said _yes_.

But because he has, he bows the way Takeda Sensei does—so fast he nearly bends in half.

“I’m sorry,” Shouyou says after thanking her. “I have volleyball.”

She doesn’t get it. _I don’t mind!_ and _I started liking you because I watched you play volleyball_.

But Shouyou doesn’t want to give only parts of himself. It wouldn’t be fair to her. His love is solely devoted to a court halved by a net and a sport where you constantly look up.

He bows again, keeping his body bent and low. “I’m focusing on volleyball.”

* * *

“Did you know?” Shouyou says with wonder during their cool off period. His hand still stings with the exhilaration of hitting his first freak quick in years. “When you said you would toss to me someday,” back when he still couldn’t differentiate between the twins. He continues and lifts his head to look at Miya Atsumu, “did you know?”

“Nah,” Atsumu says as he stretches, hand gripping toes and he bends to one side.

“Are you clairvoyant?”

A laugh slips out of Atsumu. It’s a lovely one. Shouyou’s eyes can’t leave his team’s starting setter.

“No,” Atsumu says as he switches sides. “But I figured if we both continued playing volleyball we’d run into each other some day.”

He grins. It leaves Shouyou a little stunned.

Both Atsumu-san and Hoshiumi-san looked at the larger picture back when Shouyou was shackled to the present, until it eventually drowned him in regret.

* * *

In the face of Shouyou’s announcement on his intent to return to Brazil, if Atsumu asks him to stay, this would be the end of them.

But Atsumu says: “okay.”

It’s a little breathy. He says it while running a hand through his hair. A small tussle: a sign of frustration.

“Okay,” he repeats, looking up to hold Shouyou’s gaze.

“But don’t you dare think for a second that I’m breaking up with you because of this.”

Something in Shouyou unknots.

Miya Atsumu holds the same edge he always had. Just like when he made his first declaration to set for Shouyou in his last official match of his second year. Just like when he conveyed his love to Shouyou and for the first time Shouyou became convinced that love didn’t have to be split: he could give all of Hinata Shouyou to volleyball and Miya Atsumu. And, just like now.

Shouyou laughs, a little airy. But the tension wrought in his shoulders dissipates by half.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Shouyou lies.

* * *

“Were you recruited?” Atsumu asks on the way back to their shared flat. The bags of groceries occupy their hands but Shouyou notices the way Atsumu’s hand is clenched tightly around the plastic handles. If his hands weren’t full maybe he would have reached out, allowed fingers to graze against the inside of Atsumu’s palm, let their fingers interlace for the rest of the walk home.

Atsumu looks straight ahead. The light of lamp posts falls across his face. Shadow. Light. Shadow; Light. No signs of stopping.

“No,” Shouyou keeps Atsumu’s pace easily. He stares at the ring of haze around one of the street lamps ahead.

“I just wanted to tell you first.” Before anyone else. Because Atsumu has the right to know. Because Shouyou is fully aware that it could make or break them.

“But you’re going,” Atsumu says. It sounds more like re-affirmation.

Shouyou feels the gaze on him so he turns to meet it.

“Yes,” he says, simply.

Atsumu breaks away first with a nod.

He doesn’t look back again. Not until after his hair is wet and dripping and Shouyou can’t tell if the droplets of water on his cheeks are from the shower or tears.

* * *

“How about Asas São Paulo?”

Ever since Shouyou had made his intentions known, Atsumu has taken it upon himself to help Shouyou find a team. Maybe it’s a way to cope. Shouyou doesn’t mind.

The button tip of the pen is wedged under his lower lip. He moves it to circle the name.

Atsumu leans over him, chest against Shouyou’s back, chin hooked on Shouyou’s shoulder as he switches the tab.

They continue the search together, just like the night before and the night before that.

Atsumu is always finding an excuse to remain in contact. Sometimes it’s an arm pressed against Shouyou’s as he leans in to read what Shouyou is pointing at on the screen. Sometimes it is patting Shouyou’s side of the bed: an invitation for Shouyou to join him in bed and cradle the laptop as Atsumu drapes an arm across his shoulder.

Shouyou leans back, forcing Atsumu to shift, and he tilts his head.

“Do you think they’ll want me?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Because I’m Ninja Shouyou?” he questions.

Atsumu shakes his head.

“Because you’re more than that,” comes as a whisper pressed against Shouyou’s temple. And Shouyou wonders where all this faith comes from.

There are many factors when it comes to selecting players for a team. This isn’t just a casual partnership on a court laid in sand.

“They just have to watch you play.”

Shouyou chooses to trust those words, hands coming to hold Atsumu’s face.

“What?” Atsumu laughs, cheeks warming up beneath Shouyou’s palms.

The answer comes in the form of a kiss.

* * *

Packing to move across the world is easier the second time around. Hinata Shouyou knows what’s necessary and unnecessary. He keeps everything to two pieces of luggage at max capacity.

It’s Atsumu who frets. Worse than his mother the first time around and Shouyou can’t help but chuckle at the sight.

“What are you going to do about the rice?” Atsumu asks, still determined to make a run to Edion for their internationally equipped rice cookers.

“I’ll be fine, Atsumu,” Shouyou reassures, heavily amused.

“But—”

Shouyou distracts him with a thumb brushing against Atsumu’s hip, slipping past the waistband.

“I’ll be fine,” Shouyou repeats. His thumb drawing slow circles until he sees Atsumu’s pupils dilate. His other hand reaches to grasp the front of Atsumu’s shirt and pulls him down to shut up all those thoughts up with a kiss.

It’s desperate. These marks won’t last a week. Atsumu’s nails don’t rake against Shouyou’s back deep enough to leave scars. By the time Shouyou settles into his new routine in São Paulo they will all be gone.

It doesn’t stop Atsumu from trying to leave them anyway.

“I love you,” Atsumu confesses after the release of oxytocin.

Shouyou knows it is not a mistake. Despite the haze of lust in dark pupils, Shouyou sees clarity too.

He doesn’t say it back.

Merely kisses the lid of Atsumu’s eye and hopes Atsumu understands.

Shouyou pulls the blankets a little higher so they cover Atsumu’s bare shoulders. He picks up their clothes from the floor and tosses them into the washer, hoping the beep of the machine won’t rouse Atsumu as he sets the timer for tomorrow morning.

Atsumu is still sound asleep when Shouyou returns. A small smile forms on his lips when he catches Natsu’s wallet on top of one of his suitcases. Shouyou bends to pick it up.

The leather is smooth under his thumb. He hopes, this time around, it won’t be taken from him.

It weighs more than he expects. Shouyou flips it open. Father must have exchanged Brazilian Real and slipped it in. He halts at the photograph section.

It’s the picture they took when Atsumu came along with him to Miyagi: the entire Hinata household and Atsumu smile back at him.

He slips it out and notices another one behind it.

Just him and Atsumu, grinning widely at the camera. Shouyou remembers Natsu taking it while giving them serious instructions but Atsumu had cracked a joke and it’s not in Shouyou’s system to let it slip past him unnoticed.

He turns the photograph around. Natsu’s handwriting scrawls: _don’t worry about losing this, nii-chan! I have copies saved!_

And Shouyou almost wishes Atsumu was awake. So that he could share this emotion with another instead of carrying it all behind his breastbone.

Shouyou slips the photographs back into place before he dries his eyes with the back of hand. The wallet returns to the top of his suitcase before he slips back to bed. He takes a moment to watch the rise and fall of Atsumu’s chest before he presses his lips to the nape of Atsumu’s neck.

“Good night,” he says for one last time before it is split by an ocean.

* * *

Atsumu comes to send him off at the airport even though Shouyou had told him it was unnecessary. Atsumu retorted taking a day off won’t impact him so Shouyou lets him.

Atsumu is quiet as Shouyou checks in. It reminds him of Atsumu right before serving. He continues to say nothing even as they check the monitor for Shouyou’s suitcases to pass the security check.

In the face of silence Shouyou isn’t quite sure what to say. He clears his throat and—

Atsumu wraps himself around Shouyou, enveloping him in a tight embrace. Shouyou’s arms reflexively reach to hold Atsumu.

They say the first thing people forget is the voice. And that scents have a direct route to becoming memories so they linger.

Shouyou takes in a deep breath as he closes his eyes. And prays that the scent of Atsumu’s cologne mixed with their laundry detergent will stay.

* * *

Shouyou can’t fall asleep. The scratchy cloth that covers the head area of his seat and the chair that remains more vertical than horizontal even after leaning backwards makes it an impossible dream. The stuffy seats, the plastic table, the wet towels in plastic wrappings all smell like departure and if Shouyou had gotten a window seat maybe he would have stared out the oval. Except the aircraft had reached its highest altitude hours ago, dinner had long been rolled out, cabin lights are now dim, and all shutters have been pulled shut. So Shouyou stares blankly at the movie playing on his screen. It’s one he watched with Atsumu a few months back.

Atsumu should be asleep in their—now, _his_ bed.

Shouyou tucks his chin and catches the faint whiff of Atsumu’s cologne on his jacket, eyes unblinking as he watches the actors on screen.

“I like you,” Atsumu says one day over the sizzle of meat. It’s just the two of them tucked into the center of a busy restaurant. The clinks of glass and resonating _kanpai!_ surrounding them on all sides, incessant chatter threatening to drown Atsumu out.

Shouyou catches it and answers: “I like you too!” in his usual excited tone.

“No,” Atsumu replies, looking a little wistful as he flips the thin slice of cow’s tongue, “your like is different from mine.”

“How so?” Shouyou presses as he places a piece of meat on Atsumu’s plate.

“My like is the kind where I want to hold your hand and take you on dates.”

From the way Atsumu does not break eye contact, it reads as confident. But Atsumu’s ears are bright red. The color threatening to seep onto his face. And his hand is tight around tongs, pressing the ends together. Shouyou may not have known Atsumu for long, but he knows enough. And the Black Jackals have talked about Miya Atsumu in front of Atsumu enough times for Shouyou to witness the spectrum of expressions.

Under the unflattering light of this store, Atsumu looks vulnerable. Shouyou finds it interesting, finds it cute.

And “oh.”

He thinks about _one day, I’m gonna set for you_ and the unbridled interest Atsumu has shown in him as he asks about Brazil, about Heitor. About how Atsumu puts 120% into his sets and expects his spikers to do the same. About how Miya Atsumu’s hunger has yet to dull since Shouyou first encountered him. About the way Atsumu looks at him now.

He thinks about Heitor and Nice. About _you’re betting your whole life on your play!_ About the string of lovers of the night that he couldn’t promise more time to.

But maybe he could. If Atsumu can, why can’t he?

Shouyou’s chopsticks come to rest on his plate as he lays the back of his hand on the table, holding it out in Atsumu’s direction.

Atsumu looks at the hand and back at him for a few times. It makes Shouyou’s lip curl as he tries to hold back a laugh.

Atsumu places his hand in Shouyou’s, almost tentative. Shouyou takes the chance to interlace their fingers.

“Wait...” Atsumu says, disbelief strong in his voice, “so your like is the same as mine?”

Shouyou allows the laugh to escape. It is not unkind.

“It might be,” he answers instead, smile sly.

Atsumu hides his face with his other hand, but Shouyou knows there is a wide smile behind it.

Shouyou curls his hand around the plastic cup filled with water, head bowing in a nod of thanks at the flight attendant making rounds through the cabin. He stares at his other hand and it closes around emptiness.

* * *

Jet lag is to be expected when the world is flipped on its head and Shouyou is twelve hours behind his normal routines. He’s in the kitchen of his new rental, spreading requeijão on toast, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as Atsumu keeps him company at 4 in the morning. He’s missed this, he says as much between mouthfuls. Atsumu hums under his breath. Shouyou rattles on about the things he’s missed and looks forward to getting reacquainted with. Such as the various ways São Paulo differs from Rio De Janeiro. It’s 70 kilometers away from the sea to start with, but they already knew that.

It’s familiar and unfamiliar.

 _You’ll fall in love with it anyway_ , Atsumu says. It’s not dismissive. More of an observation over the period Shouyou grew attached to Hirakata.

“You’re right,” Shouyou agrees with a nod, not that Atsumu can see him. He continues to illustrate his return to Brazil, Portuguese mixing with Japanese as Atsumu listens. Occasionally, he asks for a definition. Other times, he practices saying the words by repeating after Shouyou.

And because it makes Shouyou want to see Atsumu, he quickly places the plate in the sink. Runs a little water, wipes his hands against the tea towel, and switches on the video. The quality is grainy but it’s better than nothing.

* * *

Life starts to pick up, crude in the ways it makes aware of why people give up when relationships are stretched across physical distance. They miss each other more often than not. Shouyou falls asleep as he waits for Atsumu to call. Atsumu rings when Shouyou is invited out to bond with new teammates. Sometimes too much time has passed between successful calls that _do you remember when I told you about..._ is met with a silence that means no. The silence strains. Calls end earlier than expected.

Shouyou places the phone on the counter and wedges the palm of his hand against his eye and wonders where it all went wrong.

Should he have ended it? Is it wrong to desire—to hold out hope—that you won’t become a statistic proving the majority right?

Shouyou doesn’t say _I miss you_ because he’s lost the right to say such words the moment he stepped on the aircraft. Atsumu doesn’t say _I wish you were here_ because he doesn’t want Shouyou to apologize.

And love becomes so hidden one has to wonder if it’s still there.

Atsumu cracks first.

“I miss you,” he says. And Shouyou finally understands why Atsumu refused to turn on the video function for tonight. His voice wavers as if the words were shaken out of him in the form of a sob. And Shouyou wishes he was there. To be able to wrap your arms around someone until the sorrow subsides is a luxury, he realizes far too late.

“I miss you too,” he allows himself to say. “I miss you too,” he repeats as he combats the guilt threatening to clog his throat.

He won’t ever regret the decision to return to Brazil, to play on another stage, to challenge himself to fly. He won’t ever regret the path he takes. For every route he took, no matter how it appears to another, is volleyball.

But this feeling, this moment. It’s only human.

So he lets it out. It comes as a shudder. The anxiety conveyed until both ends of the line realize how their fears mirror each other. Shared laughter bubbles to the surface.

Shouyou collapses into his bed. His hand comes away from his eyes, wet. He conveys this to Atsumu.

 _You aren’t alone!_ and Shouyou must have broken somewhere along this conversation because he can’t stop laughing. The phone is pressed even closer to his ear as if that could reduce the 18,731 kilometers between them. He wants to etch Atsumu’s laugh into memory. His brain is unfortunately human.

“Are we okay?” Atsumu asks after a while when the silence stretches, but it’s comfortable this time. Just two individuals who don’t want to hang up. Not yet.

“Yeah, I think so.” But Shouyou wants to double check so he asks in return: “do you think we are okay?”

“Mm,” Atsumu sounds, “as long as we keep talking. I think we’ll be okay.”

At the end of the day, it’s that simple: _I’ll hit everything you toss for me_. So Shouyou asks what has been on his mind since the day he made his intent clear:

“Do you hate me for putting you through this?”

“I wish I could,” Atsumu jokes. His voice turns serious when he says: “but I think I am incapable of hating you, Shouyou.”

Shouyou doesn’t apologize because he knows Atsumu wouldn’t want that. Instead, he says: “I think I am incapable of hating you too, Atsumu.”

It took him forever to unlearn the - _san_. Shouyou can still remember the grin on Atsumu’s face when it was dropped.

Atsumu chuckles. The knot in Shouyou’s chest unfurls and he begins the process of forgiving himself.

* * *

They begin a new routine more reliant on texting.

Shouyou wakes up to long messages and falls asleep in the middle of typing one. They make promises to get back to the long ones in between a flurry of excited texts and sticker spams when they catch each other online at the same time. They forgive each other if they never get back to the lengthy texts.

He sends stickers that give smooches he can’t. Atsumu sends back ones where a character flops on another.

The chatroom is what Shouyou sees first thing in the morning and the last thing at night.

In between, he imagines the planes of Atsumu’s face and the way his hair falls when it’s not held up by gel.

It gets easier when they prompt each other with photos, so the human brain has no excuse to grow fuzzy.

Shouyou saves each and every one of them. (And locks away the riskier ones.)

* * *

Instead of making coffee or washing his face upon waking up, Shouyou blindly grabs at his phone. It rings once before Atsumu picks it up. Shouyou must have caught him in the middle of something because there is a breathless _hey_ followed by a cacophony of noises and Bokuto-san’s boisterous _put him on video, Tsumtsum!_ The sounds start to fall away after a resolute “no!”

Shouyou screws his eyes shut to cling onto the last vestiges of a dream. The vague feeling of a hand in his already replaced by the acute awareness of how empty it is.

“I had a dream about you,” Shouyou confesses. In it he was tracing the outline of Atsumu’s thumb, along the edge of the nail fold, obtaining amusement from comparing their sizes.

“What about me?” Atsumu asks when he deems it quiet enough.

Where does Shouyou even begin?

“We were on a train.”

“Where to?”

“ _Listen_.”

Atsumu hiccups and falls silent. The line now quiet except for his breathing.

The sunset of the cabin is disappearing too fast for Shouyou to remember. The letters that dance in the LED sign a blur. But the destination never mattered anyway. They were going somewhere, together. The outside world fell away until it was only a swathe of hues. Of orange and pinks and strips of indigo. Atsumu had fallen asleep to the rocking pattern of the train, chin tucked close to chest, mere centimeters away from falling onto Shouyou’s shoulder. Close enough for Shouyou to count Atsumu’s eyelashes if he wished. Hands intertwined as Shouyou became mesmerized by how the sunlight dyed Atsumu’s blonde hair into a shade kin to his own. The way his hair stirred under Shouyou’s breath felt too real for it to be a dream.

Yet here they are. The only connection between them: cell service.

Shouyou tells Atsumu as much as he remembers, trying to paint the picture as someone erases as he speaks. Eventually it will all dissolve. And Shouyou will only be left with the vague impression of a train cabin doused in sunlight.

At the very least, the first thing he hears upon waking is Atsumu’s voice.

“Do you dream of me too?” Shouyou says in lieu of _I miss you_.

The color of Atsumu’s jacket is bleached out of recognition like an overexposed photograph. Shouyou opens his eyes because there is no point in keeping them shut anymore.

“I’ll call you the next time I do,” Atsumu promises.

* * *

Shouyou’s Saturday nights and Atsumu’s Sunday mornings are set aside even when their schedules can barely sync up. It is for movies or the new drama they decided to embark on together.

It’s not the same as being curled on the same couch or in the same bed. But if Shouyou props his pillows a certain way, he can almost pretend Atsumu is next to him.

* * *

Shouyou twists the half of the orange, feeling the edges of the juicer scrape along the inside of the rind. Flesh turns to pulp and separates from juice. He makes too much. Same goes for eggs before he realizes he cracked one too many. He slips one back into the fridge. The slow sizzle of egg and oil fills his weekend morning.

His phone is still open to the picture Atsumu had sent. It’s one of MSBY Black Jackal’s post game celebration. Meian-san looks slightly inebriated judging from the color of his face. Bokuto-san has an arm slung around a very disgruntled looking Omi-san. Wan-san has his arms on Atsumu’s hair, successfully flattening all of Atsumu’s hard work, as Atsumu is caught mid scowl. It’s unflattering but also the most endearing thing Shouyou has seen.

He’s still in the process of immortalizing the photograph to memory when he begins to wonder what his life would look like if his edge of hunger was dulled. Would he still be back in Japan? Be somewhere in that photograph, perhaps next to Adriah-san with bright smiles mirroring one another. If he knew how to be content with Japan’s stage, maybe the familiar haze of alcohol would be in his veins as he soaks in the laughter of his former teammates. His knee would place its weight against Atsumu’s and Atsumu would look at him from the side of his eye as he takes a sip of beer—inciting a pool of hunger deep and low in Shouyou.

Shouyou presses his hands together before his fork separates the eggs by cleaving the egg whites. He scrapes a bite of egg and shovels it into his mouth.

He doubts it will ever wane. But on days like this, he can’t help but wonder what it would look like if it did.

* * *

On Hinata Shouyou’s birthday, he receives a box. Plain, white, with beige tape holding it together. The address is his old apartment to his new apartment with 宮侑 scrawled in familiar handwriting to the side. Shouyou tears into it.

In a bed of green packing peanuts sits another box. Bright red and velvety like a Christmas joke.

Shouyou’s heart pounds in his ears. He feels sick.

His thumb lines the box and he flips it open.

His eye catches something round and gold. He shuts it.

Tapes over the beige with a transparent roll and ticks return to sender.

Shouyou wakes up in cold sweat. The alarm at his bed side reads 6:08AM. His phone lights up with 60 or so unread messages from birthday well wishers. Shouyou drags a hand down his face.

Morning, _amoreco_!

The most recent text reads. Shouyou smiles faintly. The actions his dream self has done plays on a loop in his mind’s eye.

He gets out of bed and opens the door to his flat. No package.

Real Atsumu would never do that to him.

But Shouyou would have sent the ring back without a word and that would have been the end of them.

It’s the last thing he wants.

The laugh that is forced out of him as he sinks is a brittle one.

The camera shakes from laughter and tries to escape a pillow being launched in its direction.

“Hold it properly!” Shouyou hears Atsumu yell off screen. Osamu laughs in the face of Atsumu’s distress.

“How could I hold it when you are throwing pillows at me?” Osamu counters. The phone shifts back to capture a beet red Atsumu. Hand curled tightly around the ukulele raised above his head.

“You—” Atsumu squawks, indignant. He realizes what he’s holding and cradles the instrument to his chest.

“Osamu-san,” Shouyou chides gently. He’s thankful that he’s sitting and that Atsumu’s serenade was cut short by Osamu’s interruption. Otherwise he would have fallen over from how weak-kneed he is. “Please,” he adds.

Osamu lets out a sigh. “Only because you’re asking,” he says, ignoring Atsumu’s _hey!_ , “and because it’s your birthday.”

In two more hours it will no longer be Shouyou’s birthday in Japan. In Brazil, he still has fourteen more hours and a dinner to attend.

Atsumu starts from the very beginning, clearing his throat before he starts. His tone low, a little shaky. Shouyou hopes someone records it so he can play it back again before he falls asleep.

Atsumu sings Shouyou a love song and renders the nightmare a relic of Shouyou’s fears.

Shouyou draws his knees closer to his chest and stares, unblinking, at the poor quality video. Broad shoulders hunched over small instrument, resting against thighs. And he wishes he was there to witness. To turn over hands and brush over the pads of Atsumu’s fingers, ask him how long he’s been practicing and when did he even have time? Press his lips against knuckles before the hand comes to hold his face.

Again, Shouyou wonders how Atsumu could possibly not resent him.

But Atsumu looks into the camera during the chorus, lips around words and curl into a small smile. Shouyou realizes that if their situations were flipped, he wouldn’t resent Atsumu either. Just grateful someone is willing to embark on a hard journey with him.

Shouyou claps enthusiastically when it ends. Almost thanks Atsumu with an expression of love. But he doesn’t want their first time to be like this. He wants it to be in person, out of everyone’s earshot. He wants to see Atsumu up close when he says it.

So he swallows it back down and thanks Atsumu the way he normally does: with more sounds than words. But Atsumu gets it. He always does. And when he doesn’t, he seeks to learn.

* * *

The sun has just begun its ascent. Dew clings to blades of grass along the embankment of Rio Tietê. With every word he speaks, puffs of breath escape Shouyou. He occasionally nods at fellow joggers as he treks through his normal route in Parque Ecológico do Tietê. His earbuds are seated comfortably in each ear, the sound of Atsumu dropping his keys at the counter clear. A small _fuck_ escapes. Shouyou laughs, bright, at the image of Atsumu switching the phone from one hand to another as he bends down to pick it up. Shouyou looks up at the pinkening skies and the barren trees waiting for spring to arrive. Back home, the oppressive summer heat is starting to ease. Here, winter still refuses to let up its rule.

Tietê River captures the colors of the skies above. Shouyou’s pace slows. Atsumu’s complaints of the day leak out of his ears.

Shouyou’s chest rises and falls, tempted to pull the zipper of his jacket down a little but knows how the cold loves to seep in with every tiny opportunity. His sweat drenched back an invitation for a cold he cannot afford. Shouyou’s hands furl and unfurl as he takes in the sight before him.

It’s something he sees every morning and yet...

“I wish you were here.”

Atsumu goes silent on the other end of the line. Shouyou catches a tiny fumble. A thud in the background. A low hiss and an _ow_.

“Show me,” Atsumu answers a moment later, tone back to normal.

Shouyou unstraps the phone from his arm, flips on the camera function, and directs it at the horizon where water attempts to touch the sky. São Paulo divides the bodies of blue.

“It’s beautiful,” Atsumu exhales.

Shouyou frowns because his phone fails to capture what made him halt. Structures too far away, look even worse upon a close up. The saturation is all wrong. Not enough light to illuminate this city, this country, Shouyou has fallen in love with.

But even so, Atsumu leans forward and squints. Shouyou turns to try to give Atsumu a taste of what he sees—panorama impossible by the limits of technology.

“Yeah,” Shouyou agrees and then allows himself to voice: “but I wish you were here.”

“One day,” Atsumu promises.

It’s weird how simple words can make Shouyou feel as if he’s just wolfed down tamago kake gohan. The warmth of first harvest rice from Kita-san spreading in his chest.

Shouyou takes in a deep breath. The cold air does not drive away the feeling that spreads throughout his body. He exhales.

Atsumu speaks and Shouyou listens.

Here, on the opposite end of the world, Hinata Shouyou realizes that maybe he does love Miya Atsumu more than he ever gave himself credit for.

* * *

“Your flight is scheduled sooner than I expected,” Atsumu says. His voice is a little distant, probably scrawling the details of Shouyou’s flight somewhere so he doesn’t lose it.

“Mhmm,” he hums, “I have an interview scheduled the following week.”

Shouyou stifles a laugh when he hears the clatter of pen against table.

“An interview?” it comes out as a whine. “Where’s mine?”

The complaints only increase when Atsumu realizes Kageyama, Bokuto, and Ushijima are invited. The laugh escapes Shouyou when Atsumu goes _the rest I get, but why Bokkun?_

Followed by “hey, why don’t you start the interview off by impersonating me?”

“I’ll teach it to you.”

And how could Shouyou possibly say no to Atsumu whose eyes are filled to the brim with anticipation and excitement?

Shouyou’s lips twist, hums as if he’s in thought. As if he hasn’t already made up his mind. “You just want to show off your connection to me, _don’tcha_?” he teases.

Atsumu splutters but collects himself quickly. _Yeah? So?_ comes out a little defensive. “What if that’s the case?” Atsumu challenges.

Shouyou beams. “I want to show off our bond too.”

And this time Atsumu grows red for a different reason.

Shouyou turns his head to look at his unzipped and empty luggage. Already counting down the days until he can see Atsumu face to face again.

* * *

Despite the duration of time Shouyou had dated Atsumu in person, Shouyou still experiences giddiness. It arrives as a storm of butterflies as the aircraft begins its descent. Shouyou sucks on the lemon flavored candy, a hand steadying his knee to keep it from shaking.

The giddiness doesn’t cease. Even when the plane touches the runway. It escalates as Shouyou walks through the terminal, following the familiar signs to immigration and baggage claim. He notes a degree of nervousness, mingled with both anxiety and anticipation, in his hands. He runs it through his hair. He’s kept it at this length for a while now. What will Atsumu say?

Atsumu doesn’t say anything.

The doors slide open and Shouyou scans the sea of unfamiliar faces until he notices a figure running in the direction he pulls his suitcase towards.

Atsumu greets him the same way he left him: wraps himself around Shouyou, enveloping him in a tight embrace.

Shouyou closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in. Arms coming to crush Atsumu against him. He inhales the scent of Atsumu’s cologne, surprised by the unchanged laundry detergent underneath it. Shouyou had scoured all of São Paulo and neighboring cities for that particular brand to no avail. He takes another deep breath in, unsurprised by how he associates that brand with home.

And Shouyou finds himself thinking that maybe he could have tried this dating thing earlier. But no one made it seem worthwhile until Atsumu came along.

They stay like that for a while.

Atsumu insists on towing Shouyou’s suitcase for him. Shouyou only lets him because he would have done the same, trying to make up for the time he couldn’t. But still, he only agrees on the condition that his hand occupies Atsumu’s other one.

His heart is loud when he makes his request. He swears its audible. But the bustle of individuals around him must have drowned him out.

Atsumu’s hand is warmer than Shouyou remembers. Atsumu turns to the side, unable to meet Shouyou’s eyes, and Shouyou grins.

It feels like the very first time. But also new. Shouyou tightens his grip and Atsumu gives a soft squeeze in return.

Shouyou’s hands come to either side of Atsumu’s face before Atsumu can strap himself in. He turns Atsumu’s face towards him.

“Can I kiss you?” Shouyou echoes the prelude to their first kiss.

The temperature under his palms rises. Even in the dimness of Atsumu’s car in an airport parking lot, Shouyou can tell how Atsumu’s ears redden.

“You don’t have to ask,” Atsumu says.

“I know,” Shouyou replies, cheeky.

He leans forward and presses their lips together.

There’s a hand that comes to his waist and Shouyou is grateful that he made the decision to not put on his seatbelt just yet.

He maneuvers over the divide between seats. Atsumu moves the chair back with a push of a button, making room as Shouyou swings his legs over Atsumu.

“I missed you,” he allows himself to whisper, arms around Atsumu’s neck with fingers threading through bleached locks.

“I missed you,” Shouyou repeats. This time Atsumu swallows it with an urgency that screams _me too_.

* * *

“I’ll help Atsumu-san!” Shouyou offers easily with a smile as he takes a roll of tape from Iwaizumi-san. Shouyou could drop the title. They are an open secret. But for the sake of appearances, he relearns it.

He slides onto the bench, drawing his ankle in out of habit, leaving some space between Atsumu and himself. Tape in one hand, other outstretched for the taking.

Atsumu silently places his left hand in Shouyou’s.

Shouyou traces the sides of Atsumu’s fingers, knowing how Atsumu gets concerned over how dry they can get. His finger outlines a cuticle as if inspecting for cracks. The weight of Atsumu’s stare heavy on his shoulders.

The silence between them punctuated by the slide of tape being detached from its roll. 

Shouyou wraps the white tape around the base of Atsumu’s fourth finger, intentional. A confrontation with an old nightmare.

(He can feel Atsumu still. Shouyou had confessed the contents of his dream long ago, keeping their promise.)

He lifts his head after the tape loops around. He’s not quite there yet. Not quite at the point where tape can be replaced for something more permanent. But he does want to show Atsumu that he’s willing to stay, for as long as Atsumu wants.

Later, he’ll help Atsumu take it off too. And in the comfort of the flat— _their_ flat, Atsumu insists—Shouyou will apply lotion to these hands that send easy to hit balls even when Atsumu bends over backwards to do so.

* * *

Atsumu and Shouyou work the adrenaline out of their system the only way they know how. The excitement of the game thrums under their pulse. Shouyou wraps his lips around it, drags his teeth against it until a whine slips from Atsumu. His heart thunders in his chest, excitement pooling south. He’ll never get used to the way his body undoes itself in Atsumu’s presence. And he thinks it is the same for Atsumu. _I’m tired of fingers_ , Atsumu snapped on Shouyou’s first night back. _Please. I want you in me_.

Because a voice on the other end of the line, no matter how seductive, cannot substitute for the nails threatening to split skin and the warmth of another body entangled with yours.

Shouyou still sees the red of the uniform even after they were long turned in to be washed. So he allows red to blossom against skin normally hidden away under the tight fit of their national team jersey.

His fingers caress Atsumu’s scalp, tasting himself on Atsumu’s tongue. Shouyou allows himself to fray at the edges, observes as Atsumu becomes undone at the seams. They collapse into each other and Shouyou can no longer tell where he ends and Atsumu begins.

So he says “I love you.” Atsumu’s eyes widen.

So he says it again.

“I love you.”

And again.

“I love you.”

And again.

“I love you.”

As many times as it takes until Atsumu believes it is not just a byproduct of hormones and something Shouyou has carried with him until this very moment. No barriers. Just the promise of communication.

“Why did you never ask me to move to Brazil?” Atsumu voices after they had cleaned up what they can, limbs resuming their entanglement.

Shouyou thinks about it for a moment. It’s not that he hasn’t entertained the thought. But rather, even in his initial contemplation in moving back to Brazil, he decided that it is “unfair of me to ask you to uproot yourself for me.” Shouyou looks between them, at where the pillows touch each other. “To go somewhere with no social support and where you don’t even speak the language.” And before Atsumu insists that he could learn, just like how he’s picked up some Portuguese over the course of their relationship, Shouyou says: “I couldn’t ask you to leave every thing you love behind just for me.” It would have strained them until they fractured. Atsumu could have made Shouyou’s team, but Shouyou is also aware of how attached Atsumu is to his family. To his home. To the cuisine. To familiarity. Hirakata is close enough for a day’s drive home.

“Just because our dreams are different, doesn’t mean that mine holds priority over yours,” Shouyou says.

“But,” he decides to entertain, “if I had asked, what would you have said?”

“Hypothetically, yes,” Atsumu answers, “in a heart beat.”

“But if we aren’t speaking in hypotheticals?” Shouyou presses with a smile.

“This is my home,” Atsumu says. Open. Honest. Just what Shouyou expects. “I cant leave.”

“I know.”

And so Shouyou will never ask Atsumu to come with him. Invitations extended for visits but never anything more.

* * *

They are once again at the hub of farewells. Where fingers linger and rest in warm hands, unwilling for the eventual parting.

Again, there is nothing to say to each other that isn’t already said in their body language.

Shouyou stares at the lines of people waiting to get through the security check. He should line up too and yet.

They are buried in each other’s embrace.

Just because you do it often doesn’t mean you’ll get used to it.

Shouyou takes in another deep breathe, trying to memorize Atsumu’s scent once again.

Atsumu has already booked a flight to São Paulo in a few months. The return ticket marked two weeks later.

Even so, that is months and months away. Thus Shouyou turns his cheek and presses his lips against Atsumu’s before he pulls away.

Atsumu stands where Shouyou left him. Shouyou waves until he gets swallowed in a sea of people and loses sight of Atsumu.

When Hinata Shouyou was 15—16 when he met Atsumu—he lived in every moment, only chasing the ball.

It’s been a decade since then. He still lives in every moment, but he sees the whole court and every decision outside of it that leads to volleyball.

The bigger picture is as such: one day Hinata Shouyou will return to Japan, to his home. Miya Atsumu will probably be standing in the reception area of Narita airport to greet him.

And Hinata Shouyou is willing to bet his life on this play.

**Author's Note:**

> a delicate translation of ah more ( amor )  
> neighborhoods sourced from [this](https://thebrazilbusiness.com/article/most-expensive-neighborhoods-in-sao-paulo-city)


End file.
